Forgotten Portrait
by Yumi-Floppy-Usagi
Summary: This is the story of Ib after the ending "Forgotten Portrait". Garry is merely a portrait in Guertena's gallery. Ib has no memories of the events of that day 8 years ago. But one day when she views an old painting called "Fabricated World", something astonishing happens in the old gallery. This is the beginning of the end of the hardships of Garry and Ib
1. Prologue - The Hanged Man

Ib remembered many stories her friends at school would tell of their first loves. Sometimes they told of recent occurrences, of glances in the school grounds, of handsome classmates or kind seniors. Others were stories from long ago, of innocent child love. But most of these sweet stories, Ib couldn't relate to. The main reason, these stories usually involved falling in love with a real person. But for Ib, her first love was a man in a portrait. The Hanged man.

It had all begun when she was nine, and her parents had taken her to an art gallery, featuring the works of a mysterious artist named Guertena. But now, 8 years later, most of her memories of that day were missing. But one aspect of her experience was clear in her mind, never to be forgotten. The first time she saw The Hanged Man.

She was just about to leave. She left to find her parents, moving toward the stairs to the bottom floor, when she glanced toward a painting that didn't seem to be there before. She moved closer, and saw, inside the bronze frame, a portrait of a man. As she stared, she realised that she was in love. She had fallen in love with the man with lavender hair covering his face as he hung his head. She had no idea who the man was, or even if he was real or not. He may have just been a product of Guertena's brilliant imagination. He may have been someone who lived years ago that Guertena decided to paint. She had no way of knowing for sure. All she knew is that she was in love.

And from that day on, she visited the old gallery as often as she could. She spent hours staring at The Hanged Man. She had tried to explain to magnificence of the portrait to her parents, but they didn't seem to understand. It was almost as if they were seeing a different painting entirely.

There were many times when the gallery workers would re-arrange the displays, and sometimes remove some all together. There were many times when Ib would arrive at the gallery, only to find 'The Hanged Man' missing from its usual position, and in a panic she would search the gallery, and fortunately find it merely moved into a new arrangement. However, many small paintings, such as 'Worry', or 'Enlightenment', were taken down, as they were unable to draw in a particularly large audience. But other works such as 'Abyss of the Deep,' a massive piece displayed on the bottom floor depicting a sinister, dark world under water were kept, and the crowds continued to be fascinated by them.

Thankfully, 'The Hanged Man' had survived many years in the gallery. By now Ib had developed a relationship with most of the gallery staff after her regular visits. She had a feeling those kind people had something to do with the preservation of 'The Hanged Man.'

She knew she wouldn't be able to live without the hanged man. Over the years he had become something like a guardian for her. She spoke about her problems with no-one except him. He knew everything about her. He was a part of her. But unfortunately she still knew nothing about him. It must've been the millionth time that she had wished he would come alive. Crawl out of the frame and stand, lift his head, show her his eyes, and talk. She wanted to meet him. SHe wanted to know his name. If only.

So instead she made up her own possibilities of what kind of person the hanged man was. The sinister lighting and shade of the foreground seemed to indicate that something terrible had happened to the man. By now she had thought of a million possibilities to why the man's head was hanged.

He may have lost someone, or something. Or maybe he was injured. Perhaps he was scared, or worried for his well being. Maybe he was in terrible danger.

Whatever the reason, Ib couldn't deny that the painting had captured her, and held her. And for the next 8 years she would re-visit the gallery at least once a week, without fail, every time talking to the hanged man, about her life, her school, her friends, her parents. Pouring out her soul to him. And praying that one day, by some miracle, he would talk back.


	2. Blue Rose

As Ib wandered out of the public library she rubbed her fingertips against her palm. The skin was incredibly dry. She had spent hours flipping pages in the old library, scanning through every art history book, every art reference guide, and even every art textbook in the place. It wasn't the first time she had resorted to such measures, so most of the books she found she had already read. But still, there was something nagging her about Guertena. And no matter how hard she tried she couldn't figure out what, let alone solve the problem.

So in exhaustion she had given up, and now walked down the street towards said artist's gallery. It was time for another visit, and the gallery was on the way home anyway.

When she arrived, she wandered straight into the doors, and brought up her hand to wave to the John, the old man at the reception desk, as she did every week. Her body was tuned with the routine and she nearly did it without thinking. Passing the big pillar at the entrance, she said greetings to accompany the wave.

But as she entered she realised the greeting was not needed, as John was no-where to be seen. The reception desk was empty, apart from its box of pamphlets and the sign-in sheet.

It was true that she had been to the gallery hundreds of times before, but never once was there no receptionist, no matter how empty the place was. So she felt a strange pang of guilt as she wandered past the desk, not signing in or giving money. But she knew that something was wrong, and she had to find out what.

She went straight to the stairs and up to the top floor, passing under the rectangle of sunlight projected there by the small window at the top of the stairs. Turning the corner, she looked straight for The Hanged Man. But to her horror, it was gone. But not only The Hanged Man, the entire place was empty. "Woman taking the Newspaper," "Reserved Seat" and even "Death of the Individual" were missing from their usual places. The bare white walls gleamed all around her as her panic rose.

She hurried downstairs, desperately searching for anything left. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw that "Abyss of the Deep" was still there, its haunting depths as dark as ever. She realised that this work was painted to the floor, and couldn't be removed. But what of all the other pieces? And what of the gallery itself?

She continued to search, finishing the bottom floor, and returning to the top floor once again. She tried to ignore the empty wall where "The Hanged Man" once was, and moved down to where "Fabricated World" should be.

Moving down the corridor, she heard voices. One of them was John's the receptionist that she knew so well. The other two she didn't know.

"Please! You mustn't do this! These pieces are ancient, they deserve respect! You must be more careful!" She heard John say.

"Calm down old timer, we're trying as hard as we can." One voice said, amidst a series of grunting and fumbling. "Once we get this damn thing down we gotta lug it all the way down to the store room you know."

"Don't forget we're on a tight schedule here," The other unknown voice retorted. "If we don't finish today our boss is gonna lose his shit."

Ib peeped around the corner, and to her dismay saw John overseeing the removal of "Fabricated World", the massive mural on the top floor by two gaunt men in white overalls. She guessed they were furniture movers, hired by the gallery to transport the works.

They lowered the mural to the floor, but at the last minute lost control and one of the corners dropped harshly, clanging loudly to the floor.

Ib and John both winced, and John respectfully scolded the two workers harshly. The three men decided that it was getting late, and to leave it at this for today, and finish up tomorrow. Ib guessed John the art appreciator couldn't take anymore sudden destruction of ancient art. They began walking towards her, and she panicked, realising with the gallery in this state, there was nowhere to hide. She rushed up the corridor, to where the corner was to go to the other side of the top floor, and hid there, while John and the two repo men made their way to the stairs and down.

"Arg, this place smells like old people." One of the repo men commented to the other, who agreed with a distasteful grunt. John walked solemnly behind them, following them down the stairs, his face pale as a ghost.

Before following them, Ib ran back to Fabricated World, to get one final look at its amazingly hypnotic abtractism. She stared deep into its depths, taking in every odd corner, every shadow and beam of light, every colour and shade, every plane of gravity. She stood far back from it, taking it all in. In deep within her, a terrible sorrow slowly grew. She couldn't believe this was the last time she could appreciate this masterpiece. And when she thought of the Hanged Man...She couldn't bear it.

She was just about to turn away in sadness, when something familiar caught her eye.

The surface of the painting seemed to shimmer. She blinked, believing it to be a trick of the light. But then she saw, nearly hidden in the brushstrokes of an abstract corridor, a clear image of a man with a deep navy coat, and lavender coloured hair. She could barely make out a blue rose in the man's hand.

Could this be the Hanged Man? Could it be that Guertena had left an Easter egg in his painting? But how could she never have noticed it before?

Just as she continued to question her own sanity, the image of the man vanished, as if it had never been there. She searched vigilantly, but all that remained in the corridor was black shadows. She decided she must have been seeing things. Perhaps out of her disheartened state of discovering the terrible news of the gallery's fate. Turning towards the stairs, something caught her eye once more.

A faint spot of blue at the corner of the golden frame. At first she thought it was a splutter of deep blue paint, behind the mural as it leant against the wall. But when she got closer, she realised it was a rose. A slightly wilted blue rose that had been hidden behind the painting. She reached for it. It laid limp in her hand, a petal falling from the stem, floating to the floor, and staining the gleaming white.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she put the strange find deep in her jacket pocket.

Ib then followed the three men down the stairs to the first floor, being careful to make no sound. She reached the bottom floor and peeped to see what was happening. The two vile repo men with their sweating brows and dirty hands were packing their tool boxes, obviously getting ready to leave, much to Ib's thankfulness.

"Please, go ahead. I'll follow soon." John was saying, ushering the men to the door.

"All right old man, don't be so hasty, we've just been liftin' bloody ten ton paintings all day!" They spat, before lumbering out the door. As soon as he was alone John seemed to crumble, his head lowering and his eyes becoming hollow. He turned to stare into the mostly empty gallery, his thoughts obviously on the long time he had spent working here. Now that Ib thought about it, she had never known the gallery of Guertena to have another receptionist than John. This place was just as much a part of him as it was a part of her.

She decided it was cruel to sneak around behind his back. She emerged from the corner, into full view of John. When he saw her his eyes at first widened in shock, then fell back into a deeper low than before, as if the realisation that Ib knew about the gallery's closing was even more crushing.

"Oh, Ib. What will we do without it?" He sighed, staring down at "Abyss of the Deep," The only shred of memory left intact.

"John..." Ib muttered. "I- I need your help." She had to see him. One last time. If anyone could help her it was John.

"I already know what you came for. As soon as I saw you I knew. You want to see The Hanged Man one last time, don't you?" He asked, without looking at her.

"But, how did you-"

"I know it seems like I've been here forever, I was young once too, Ib. I know what love looks like. Although I must say I've never come by someone as infatuated with a man in a painting as you." He raised his eyebrow at her, and she blushed slightly. "Still, young love is unprecedented. Come with me."

He began leading her to the back end of the first floor, when they came to a door marked 'Staff Only'. Ib had never been in this door before, obviously. When they reached it, John unlocked the door, and held it open for her. But once she was inside, he didn't follow. She turned to him, questioning, but he simply held his finger to his lips in a hushing gesture.

"I'm only doing this because of the circumstances, my dear." He said, in his most sophisticated voice. "Please don't tell anyone."

Ib smiled warmly and nodded. She was very thankful for his kindness and understanding.

With one final wink from John, the door closed, and Ib was enclosed in darkness. It took a second for her eyes to adjust from being in gleaming white to dull black. She found a light switch and flicked it on.

And a beautiful world of colour and familiarity jumped out to greet her.

The entire store room was packed to the rafters of every painting and sculpture in the gallery. "Marvellous Night," "Juggler," "The Lady In Red," "Your Dark Figure," Everything was here. She even saw sculptures such as "Taste-Cleansing Tree" and "Fusion" tucked neatly into the corners. It was as if every memory of her visits, every joyous moment of being with the pieces was combined and lovingly moulded into one experience, all taking place within this tiny room. As she stared tears came to her eyes. She searched longingly for the golden frame of The Hanged Man. The one painting she wanted to see the most. And finally she found it. There was no mistaking the pattern on the corners of the frame. She saw it tucked carefully behind a row of other paintings, just able to catch the dark shadowy corner. She stumbled forward...

And in her haste, accidentally knocked a pile of paintings, creating a domino effect, knocking over piece after piece of priceless art, each loud crash ringing in her ears.

She screwed her eyes shut, deeply regretting her thoughtlessness. John had trusted her in this room. What would he say if he found the entire contents of the gallery he so loved in shambles?

The crashing stopped. She dareingly opened her eyes.

To see that all was well. She exhaled in relief. Many painting were lying on the floor in unorganised piles and messy but none were damaged. The row of standing paintings that included The Hanged Man had also fallen, leaving the painting exposed finally, to be seen in all its splendour and wonder. She turned to it, so thankful and ready to see it for the final time.

But something was wrong. Terribly wrong. She wondering in horror if she had been the cause. No, there was no possible way this was her fault. Or was it? How could this even be happening?

The Hanged Man was gone. Not the canvas or the golden frame. They remained intact. But the shadowy mysteria that was the background of the painting was all that entailed the piece. The actual man, The Hanged Man, was missing from the painting. As if he had decided to get up, and leave. Her love, her only desire, was no-where to be seen.

She stared in fascinated horror. The empty darkness inside the frame loomed at her, taunting her. She wanted to cry. She wanted to laugh. She had no idea what was wrong with her, or if she was even sane. She could be dreaming right now. This just wasn't possible.

But her unhinged mind halted its collapsing when she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye. The pile of paintings that had fallen to reveal the Hanged Man lie in front of it. But she could've sworn the pile was moving. As if someone, or something were underneath it, breathing steadily.

Every instinct in her body told her to run, flee, tear away screaming from the unknown and unseen thing beneath the pile of canvases and frames. But she was paralysed. Held there by fascination, and the need to know just what the hell was going on.

She started moving forward, ever so slowly, towards the breathing stack. She reached it, removed the canvas on top. Removed another, and another, and another, until finally whatever was underneath could hide no more.

She stared for a moment, completely unable to even think about reacting to what she was seeing. Until finally she gave into her instinct and flung herself back from the breathing thing with a cry of fear. How? How? HOW?

There, lying beneath his own painting, real flesh and blood, hot air going in and out of his lungs, was the Hanged Man.


	3. His Name Is Garry

All Ib could do was stare. Stare at the large hands, clasped into fists at his sides. Stare at the lovely lavender locks spilling to the floor around his head. Stare at the slowly heaving back as he breathed in and out.

And slowly, slowly, her fear died down. She didn't know how, or why, or even if this was real. But she knew, the Hanged Man had come to her. Answered her prayers. After all this time of begging, wishing him to life, it had worked. She had to believe it.

She moved closer, until she began to hear the sound of the breath escaping his lips. She longed to wake him up, to see his beautiful face. But she was worried he was in pain.

She decided to call out. It seemed to work, to a point. A low groan escaped his lips. He was in pain.

Hardly able to believe what she was doing, she moved even closer, and touched the man's solid shoulder, feeling the texture of his tattered navy jacket, and his warmth. He was definitely not an illusion.

She then massaged his shoulders, thinking it could help. But he only jerked in agony, and coughed violently. He was in a lot of pain...

She didn't know what to do. She had to help this man, or he could die. She could never forgive herself if she let that happen. But he was far too tall for her to carry, and he couldn't move by himself.

She looked down at her hands in concern. When she saw that her hands were covered in navy blue paint. She stared at them in disbelief, then back at the Hanged Man. He was made of paint..? He wasn't human?

Then a thought hit her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the blue rose she had found earlier. She remembered that at first she thought the rose was a splatter of blue paint. Could this somehow be connected?

As if sensing the presence of the rose, The Hanged Man stirred and moaned. Ib wanted to experiment further. She touched the petals of the rose between her fingers. And sure enough, when she examined them, they were stained with deep blue paint.

She pulled a petal from the rose to get a closer look, but as she did The Hanged Man cried out in agony. She dropped the rose in alarm, and apologised stupidly. Then she finally understood. The Hanged Man wasn't entirely human. Although he had a physical form, he was still a painting, and he had a connection with the rose. As it wilted, so too would he wilt away.

She stood up, leaving the injured man alone in the dark room, and sped back through the gallery to the reception desk, to look for a cup or vase. She wasn't sure if her idea would actually work, but she had to try. If she didn't do something, he would...her love would...

She reached the desk and found a glass of water underneath it. Mentally thanking John for always needing to have a glass of water with him while he worked, she grabbed it and placed the rose's stem carefully inside. Almost instantly she began to see changes in the rose. The colour became less dull, and it stood straight instead of limp. She breathed a sigh of relief before hurrying back to the store room.

When she moved back through the door she saw the man lying exactly as she had left him. She crouched beside him once more, placing the glass with the now live blue rose carefully on the floor, before calling out to the man.

And this time, it worked. He stirred, his shoulders squaring and lifting from the floor. And then he looked up.

And Ib had never seen anything more beautiful in her life.

Although only one of his eyes were visible behind his violet hair, it was deep and shimmering, staring at her at first with fear. She was transfixed, and found that she couldn't look away. Until suddenly, after a long moment of silence, the man's eye widened as recognition flooded his mind. He sat up completely, moving closer to Ib, staring directly into her red orbs. Until they were a hair's breadth apart.

"...Ib?" The word escaped his lips, and Ib gasped. Did he just say...Her name?

"It is you! Ib!" He said it again. There was no way...

Suddenly he wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. She blushed madly, although she was being hugged by a living painting, he was still her first love. This was a dream come true. Not to mention that he knew her somehow.

"How...do you know name?" She muttered, fearful.

"What?" The Hanged Man moved back to stare at her once more. "What do you mean, how do I know? How could I not know? You've been talking to me! You visited me once a week for 8 years! You're the only one who ever payed that much attention to me. I could hear it, Ib. Everything you said to me, I remember it all!"

Ib blushed a thousand shades of red. She had always wished to meet The Hanged Man, but she had never expected all those years of pouring out her soul to him to actually matter.

"I...I never knew." She stuttered "I only thought you were-"

"A painting." He said, his head suddenly lowering and his expression becoming sad. "I know. I've been trapped there a long time. But the truth is, I wasn't always a painting! I had a life, before all that stuff with the gallery!"

"Huh?" Ib asked in confusion. The Hanged Man turned to her, astounded.

"Wait, Ib...you mean, you don't remember?" He asked. When she didn't answer, he went on fruitlessly. "What about the Ladies? And the blue dolls? and the Mannequin heads? And...Mary?"

But nothing was working. Plainly Ib thought he was talking nonsense.

"Oh dear...It seems the gallery has messed up both our memories." He said in sadness.

"What do you mean? Is there something wrong with your memories?" Ib asked.

"To tell you the truth, although I know I had a life before we were lost in the gallery, I can't remember anything about it. I don't know anything about who I was. My earliest memory is finding myself lost in that accursed gallery. But I was never sad, because of you, Ib. I remembered you at least, and even though I was trapped you continued to visit me. Your visits were all that kept me going. Otherwise...I'm sure I wouldn't have made it."

Ib's heart was full. She was sad that she didn't know anything about this experience he was talking about. And she was even more sad that he couldn't remember being human. If ever he was at all. But most of all, she was happy to be able to talk to him, her first love, and still she loved him. Even as they sat here in the darkness. And she wanted nothing more than to help him.

Then The Hanged Man spotted the blue rose on the floor. "Ahh," he said. "It seems I'm still not quite human. The gallery still has me in its clutches." He picked up the beautiful rose and held it in his hand, staring down at its graceful petals with a familiar look in his eye.

Then Ib got an idea. "Listen." She started. "You may not be human right now, but that doesn't mean you won't ever be. We could search for a way to get your old life back. And we could start with getting your memories back."

The Hanged Man stared at her whole heartedly.

"You don't have anywhere to go right? You can stay at my house. My parents won't find out. And you'll be safe. I'll take care of your rose, and keep it safe." She meant every word she said. There was no way she was letting him slip away.

He smiled, a full, deeply happy smile. "I'd like nothing more." He said.

She returned his smile. "But, there's one thing I've always wanted to know. Ever since I first started visiting you in the gallery." Ib said, hopeful.

"What is it?"

"Well, I don't know if you even have one, or if you can remember it, but...what is your name?" She asked finally, hoping he could answer.

He looked at her, all the warmth from his previous smile vanishing. She felt a pang of guilt. How could she ask something so personal? He probably hates you now...

The Hanged Man stared at her, disheartened. So...He thought. She truly has forgotten all about me...

Ib bowed her head, ready to apologise and beg for his forgiveness, hoping he still wanted to stay with her.

"Garry."

She looked up in shock to see his beautiful smile had returned.

"My name is Garry."


	4. Mysteria

Ib asked herself for the millionth time tonight if this was in fact a dream. She asked herself again and again how she could possibly be walking with a painted man right now. She continually mentally slapped herself to try and snap back into reality, that sad reality that seemed so strange now.

But indeed she was walking down her street with her first love, the man from Guertena's portrait, who's name she had finally learned to be Garry.

His arm was around her for support, but she doubted her tiny figure was of much help to the tall man. He kept stumbling to his knees, each time a petal would fall from the magnificent blue rose hanging from Ib's pocket. She looked back over the moonlit sidewalk, and saw a faint trail of drops of blue paint staining the ghostly concrete. She looked back into the face of the injured man, his eyes still an amazingly new sight for her. She wished she could stare into them forever. But she had to focus on getting him back to her house, getting him safe. She would put the rose in water and it would regenerate, like it had done back at the gallery, and he would be alright. She hoped.

And once again, she couldn't accept that this was actually happening.

Finally arriving at her home, a large, two story estate with exquisite garden beds and fountains lining the driveway. However, instead of approaching the tall pillars that bordered the iron front gate, she moved to the side of the property, the tall house looming over them, windows dotting its surface.

Garry was too busy gawking up at the massive house to notice where Ib was taking him. They reached a spot near the back corner of the iron fence surrounding the estate, and Ib carefully help Garry against a tree, mumbling "one moment". She moved into the bushes that ran alongside the footpath and blocked the bottom of the iron fence from view, before pushing aside the undergrowth, revealing a large hole in the fence, big enough for them both to climb through.

"We're sneaking in?" Garry questioned, still leaning heavily on the tree.

"I'm really sorry about this, I'm not going to let you fend for yourself, not in this state. But my parents definitely wouldn't agree to let you stay. But don't worry, I've snuck out at night a lot before, we'll be okay." She crept through the hole silently, and stood, checking the coast was clear.

Garry couldn't help but smile. It was unusual to think of the well-mannered and obedient Ib being at all unfaithful to her parents. But here she was sneaking like a shadow through a hole in the fence that she had obviously used many times before. He saw her ushering politely to him, and he stumbled through the hole, and back onto his feet. Ib grabbed his arm and wrapped it around her shoulder once more, taking as much of his weight as she could. Garry looked down at her determined expression, noticed a tiny bit of sweat dripping from her brow. She was so caring, even though she was tired. Even though she remembered nothing of their previous friendship. She was sneaking him into her home, against her parents. She was risking a lot to help him. And he found himself in great admiration of her.

As they got to the back door, Ib walked to the burglar alarm and punched in a code, before pushing open the screen door and letting herself inside.

Instantly Garry felt better. Now that he was out of the chilly wind he felt like he could breathe better.

"Ib, its okay, I can walk." He muttered, moving away from her. He noticed despite the temperature of the house he felt the absence of Ib's warmth more than he thought he would.

"Are you sure?" She asked. He nodded with a smile. "Okay. My room is upstairs."

She turned to go, grabbing a vase on a nearby table. Garry stared, it looked priceless. And she was filling it with tap water. He couldn't help but smile.

"I had no idea your family was so rich, Ib." He commented, following her to the best of his ability to a huge entrance room, an enormous staircase looming up to his left.

"My father is the head of a car company. It wasn't always like this though, we used to live in a much smaller house." She said, waiting for Garry to catch up.

When they finally made it up the stairs, Ib led him through the western corridor, before finally approaching a door that had two letters cut from paper stuck on it with tacs.

"'Ib'" Garry read. "That's so cute. Did you do this when you were young?"

"Yeah..." Ib looked nervous. She had never had any guests in her room before. But none-the-less, she opened her door wide, to reveal quite a large room, with a desk and computer in front of the tall window on the right of the far wall. A closet adorning the left wall, and an old dolls house that seemed like it hadn't been touched in years collected dust on the right wall. But the most grand figure piece in the room was her massive, four posted bed, covered with delicate silk sheets, towering on the right of the far wall.

"Wow..." Garry muttered without thinking. "You're very lucky."

"I spend most of my time in here." Ib explained. "When I'm not at school, my parents are always working. And I don't have any brothers or sisters. The only other people in this massive house are the butlers and maids. But it still feels empty. At least in here I feel a little more at home."

Garry put his arm around her shoulders. Ib assumed immediately he was struggling to stand, and tried her best to help. But then she looked up at his face, smiling so sweetly down at her. And realised he was just comforting her.

"I'll keep you company, Ib." This was a sight she would not easily get used to. Her love, smiling. At her. She blushed madly and led him inside, turning on two expensive-looking classical lamps by her bed. She then placed the blue rose in the vase and left it to regenerate on her bed side table.

"There are plenty of bedrooms in the house, but if my parents find out you're here they'll surely have you kicked out onto the street. There's no way I'm letting that happen." Ib said, leaving Garry by her bed.

"I wouldn't want it any other way." Garry smiled whole heartedly. Ib was such a lonely girl, he didn't want to leave her.

"I'll go get a futon and some sheets." Ib left the room, and Garry stood there idly. The fact that he was in a nearly-stranger's room setting in. A girl, no less. He looked around once more with a new attitude, a light blush on his cheeks. When a wave of tiredness seemed to sweep over him. He fell heavily onto the bed. 'I'll just rest a little while...'

"Okay, I'm pretty sure none of the maids saw me." Ib said, sneaking back into her room with linen in her arms. "This will be nice and comfortable for-" She was cut off as she looked over to her bed to see Garry sleeping soundlessly like a baby. She moved closer cautiously, placing the linen on the floor. Now what was she supposed to do? There was no way she could wake him up, when he looks so peaceful.

And beautiful.

She found herself stuck and staring. His eyes were closed, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. His broad chest rose and fell slowly, the breath escaping his partly open lips.

Unable to stop herself, she reached out, placing a delicate finger on his cheek. She caressed it with such care, his skin soft as the pillow he was lying on. Then he stirred the slightest bit, and she pulled her hand away frettingly.

Looking at it, she saw she had pale powder on her finger tips, like dried paint. Then it all came back to her. Garry was so wonderful, so beautiful. But he was never supposed to be here in the first place. Although she was undoubtedly in love with him, he wasn't hers to love. He had his own life, his own purpose. He just had to find it, by regaining his memories. And she would stop at nothing until that happened.

She moved to start setting up the futon. It looked like she was sleeping on it tonight. But something stopped her from moving any further away from the bed. She looked down, and saw Garry's eyes had opened, ever so slightly, and her hand was in his, he was gripping her hand for dear life. Although Ib was sure he was still half asleep, his next words were unmistakable.

"Please...don't leave me." He muttered, all his anguish and pain channelled into his voice. There was no way she could refuse that.

With a sigh, she climbed into bed with him. His eyes closed again, but apart from that he didn't move a muscle. She wriggled in close, his breath grazing her face. He was fast asleep again. She could feel his warmth and his heart beat. And although in the back of her mind she knew he wasn't quite human yet, she knew that he was once. His heartbeat was too pure, too genuine to be fake.

They stayed like that until Ib too, fell asleep. Together barely touching but still close on her bed. What she didn't remember to account for was her personal maid's wakeup call in the morning.

_**GARRYXIB FTW**_


End file.
